And still the Rhine had rolled a German flood. I gaze, and seek their numerous host in vain, Gone like the locust band, when whirlwinds bear Their flimsy legions through the waste of air. By her whose charms the coldest zeal might warm, The manliest firmness in the fairest form Save, Europe, save the remnant.-Yet remains One glorious path to free the world from chains. Why, when your northern band in Eylau's wood Retreating struck, and tracked their course with blood, While one firm rock the floods of ruin stayed, Freedom's loved ark, o'er broad oppression's tide, And thou, blest star of Europe's darkest hour, Whose words were wisdom, and whose counsels power, Whom Earth applauded through her peopled shores, (Alas! whom Earth too early lost deplores ;-) Young without follies, without rashness bold, And greatly poor amidst a nation's gold; In every veering gale of faction true, Thy blaze broke forth at once in full meridian sway. O, proved in danger, not the fiercest flame Not when wild Zeal, by murderous Faction led, On Wicklow's hills, her grass-green banner spread; Or those stern conquerors of the restless wave Defied the native soil they wont to save.Undaunted patriot, in that dreadful hour, When pride and genius own a sterner power; When the dimmed eyeball, and the struggling breath, And pain, and terror, mark advancing death ;Still in that breast thy country held her throne, Thy toil, thy fear, thy prayer were hers alone, Thy last faint effort hers, and hers thy parting groan. Yes, from those lips while fainting nations drew Hope ever strong, and courage ever new ; Yet, yet, I deemed, by that supporting hand Propped in her fall might Freedom's ruin stand; Now, hope, adieu ;-adieu the generous care 'Behold, e'en now, while every manly lore And Memphian idols watch o'er beauty's sleep To rouse the slumbering sparks of faint desire With the base tinkling of the Teian lyre, While youth's enervate glance and gloating age Hang o'er the mnazy waltz, or pageant stage, Each wayward wish of sickly taste to please, The nightly revel and the noontide easeThese, Europe. are thy toils, thy trophies these. 'So, when wide-wasting hail, or whelming rain Have strowed the bearded hope of golden grain, From the wet furrow, struggling to the skies, The tall, rank weeds in barren splendor rise; And strong, and towering o'er the mildewed ear, Uncomely flowers and baneful herbs appear: The swain's rich toils to useless poppies yield, And Famine stalks along the purple field. And thou, the poet's theme, the patriot's prayer: Where, France, thy hopes, thy gilded promise where ; When o'er Montpelier's vines, and Jura's snows, All goodly bright, young Freedom's planet rose ? What boots it now, (to our destruction brave,) How strong thine arm in war? a valiant slave. What boots it now that wide thine eagles sail, Fanned by the flattering breath of conquest's gale, What, that, high-piled within yon ample dome, The blood-bought treasures rest of Greece and Rome? Scourge of the highest, bolt in vangeance hurled By Heaven's dread justice on a shrinking world, |